No Girls Allowed (Dogs Okay) (11 page)

“I'm not loaning you—”

“I don't want money.”

“Then what?”

“Could you tell Mom and Dad that you want a dog too?”

She moans. “Scab, I—”

“You know you want a pet as much as I do. Does it really make a difference if it's a cat or a dog?”

My sister picks at her corn bread.

“All you have to do is help me get them to say yes. I'll do everything after that. I'll feed him, play with him, walk him—”

“You?” She snorts. “You? You, Scab McNally, will scoop poop?”

“Yep. I've already scooped Oscar's. I'm pretty good at it too.”

She looks impressed.

“So will you do it? Please, Izzy? Please?”

“Hey, hey, what's that smell?” Lewis Pigford is behind my sister. “Hey, hey,” he calls out, “it's Isabelle!”

I slump down. One row over, Henry Mapanoo and a few other bologna heads are laughing it up.

“He's been doing that all week,” Isabelle says to me.

“Your stuff is primo, Scab,” says Lewis. “Primo! It worked great.”

I keep sliding. My head is now barely visible above the table.

Isabelle has one eyebrow up.

Lewis lets out a whoop. He puts a hand to his ear. “Hey, hey, what's that smell?”

“Hey, hey,” his friends shout back, “it's Isabelle!”

“Smelly Isabelly,” sings Lewis. He dances in a circle and kicks out his legs. “Smelly Isabelly.”

“I'd better go,” says Isabelle. Her face is a splotchy pink. “I was going to practice my violin anyway.”

“Wait,” I cry, popping back up. “What about—?”

“We'll see,” she says, gathering her stuff on her tray. She gets up. “In case you're interested, Doyle hasn't stopped looking at us since you sat down. You should go tell him you're sorry.”

“But I'm—”

“I know, I know, you're not sorry. But he's your best friend, Scab. You guys fit together like puzzle pieces. You don't want to lose that.” She looks past me. I follow her gaze. Ah! There they are. Laura Ling and Kendall Peters are sitting two rows over. Have they been there all this time?

“Why didn't you—?” I try to ask her why she didn't sit with her friends at lunch, but Isabelle is already making her way down the row.

Lewis is still doing his silly dance. “Bye, Smelly Isabelly. Bye,” he bellows after her. “See ya, Smelly. La, la, la . . . Smelly Isabelly . . . dee, dee, dah . . . Smelly Isabelly . . .”

I want to tell that prunehead to leave my sister alone. But Lewis Pigford knows too much. He could
spoil everything. I am inches from getting a dog. Inches. So Lewis keeps singing and Isabelle keeps walking and I keep silent.

My stomach hurts. And it's not from the chili.

H
ave a nice day.” Ms. Rigormortis's drab voice follows me off the bus.

“You, too,” I say. I don't know why I say it.

I look back. Ms. Rigormortis is smiling. Sort of. She's wearing a green retainer thingy in her mouth. I guess even zombies want good teeth.

I hop off the last step. I feel great. No, I feel
incredible
! In my backpack, I carry three bottles of Isabelle' Smell. Once I sell these, I will have earned sixty dollars! All I need now is for Isabelle to agree to—

“Scab?”